


By Her Blood

by TimmyJaybird



Series: The Awakening [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:24:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Married to a Lion, Sansa wants nothing but a Hound. But will Sandor still have her, and will she accept the risks of continuing to desire him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Her Blood

Rain pattered loudly against the keep, loud and nearly painful as the sky opened up to drown the city. Sansa wanted to cover her ears as she walked the halls, but did not want to seem a child. Instead she kept her head high and tried to focus on her steps, leading her to her lord husband and her own chambers.

She passed a few of the maids, who looked at her, then at each other, giggling and whispering. Sansa knew what they spoke of, and gritted her teeth, a habit she had gotten from _him_.

The spoke of how her and Tyrion’s sheets were always milky white- how she had not opened her legs for him. The spoke of her as the most prudish woman of all the land, with not a spark of desire in her body- even if her only option was the Imp.

_If only they knew_.

If they knew of the heat the coiled in her blood, of the way her womanhood ached with need, they would be singing a different song. If only Sansa could rouse that ache for her husband, she could silence the rumors. Sadly, Sansa knew she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.

She closed the door but did not latch it, and sat down on their large bed, smoothing a hand over the covers. Her first night alone with Tyrion she had been terrified. He wasn’t the man she wanted, but worse, she feared he would know she was no maid. She had cried knowing he would discover that, and that she would be shamed- that he would be angry and have her stripped and beaten and left out in Flea Bottom for the men to ravage and rape at their will.

He’d taken her tears as fear of an unknown, and allowed her to keep her legs closed. He’d dared to say he would not take her until she asked. Sansa knew she would not ask, not out of desire.

She flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. She knew she would have to ask, she would have to let him between her legs. She’d have to give him a bloody lion babe and play the good little wife. But she did not have to enjoy it, she did not have to love him.

He’d told her so much. Not her husband, never Tyrion, but the one man she dared to confess to. The Hound had been brutally honest with her after her wedding. He’d told her she’d have to do these things, or face the Lannister wrath. And that was something he couldn’t fight for her.

He’d smelled of wine, and tasted of it too. He’d let her kiss him, let her crawl into his lap and straddle his hips, but when she had reached for the laces of his breeches he’d stopped her, told her not then. Sansa had protested, claimed that someday soon Tyrion would know she was no maid, and that she wanted to enjoy him until they left her for dead. The Hound had only laughed and given her some of the most honest advice she’d ever heard.

“Get him drunk. A drunk man won’t know the difference between a maiden’s cunt and that of a pox ridden whore.”

Sansa thought on it as she lay there. Just get him drunk. He did that himself without her help, it would be easy enough. Get herself well into the wine as well, and be done with it.

“Are you lost in thought, little bird?”

Sansa sat up, looking at her doorway. The Hound filled it, leaning against the frame from the inside, smiling at her. She jumped up and ran over, shoving him away and closing the door quickly.

“What is someone saw you!” she hissed, leaning against the closed door and panting with adrenaline. “Gods, they could have your head.”

“Aye, and yours too.” He reached out, tangled his hand in her hair, pulling her closer. She let him, wanting to believe he’d come to take her again, to fuck her as he had not since that single night in the godswoods. But she knew he hadn’t, especially not in the bed she shared with her husband.

“Why are you here?” she asked, nearly against his lips.

“Can’t a dog visit his favorite bird?”

“In my husband’s chambers?” Sansa asked, before reaching between them and daring to press her hand to his stomach, splay her fingers against the cloth and hard muscle beneath. “I think not, _ser_.” He gritted his teeth and she just smiled- not the smile of little Sansa Stark when she was so young and inexperienced, but the smile of Sansa, now belonging to house Lannister.

The thought nearly made bile rise in his throat, but he ignored it, reached down and caught the hand she rested on his body.

“You’re not throwing me out,” he mused, “might be you like the idea of me fucking you in your husband’s bed.”

Sansa smacked him, on his good cheek. It as fast and sudden, followed by her reaching for him, pulling him down to her lips for a fierce kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, pressed their bodies together in such a perfect puzzle. Sansa ripped at his clothing, wanting it gone. She’d been forced into her sexual solitude for too long- she wanted him. She wanted the raw heat he left in her, the way he made her feel less like a stupid girl, and more like a wolf.

“Latch the door,” she breathed, and gods by damned, he obeyed. Then in a quick motion he threw her over his shoulder and stalked over towards their bed.

“No,” Sansa said, “No- he’ll know!”

Growling in frustration, the Hound dropped her down onto the large outcut of the window, before he kissed her again, pushing her heavy skirts up. Sansa squirmed and spread her thighs, smilingly inwardly when his hand pressed to her nether lips, against the smallclothes that acted as the Wall itself to her treasure. She pressed towards his hand, her mind reeling. Was he drunk? She couldn’t taste wine on his tongue. Gods, what could have brought him to her? He’d been denying her every advance since her wedding.

Sansa wanted everything, all at once. His fingers, his tongue, his cock, all of him. She reached down and fumbled with his hands, both tearing at her smallclothes until they fell ruined. She didn’t care.

He teased her, found her slick, and wasted no time slipping a finger inside her, his thumb rubbing her tight bundle of nerves. Sansa quivered, whimpering despite herself. Inwardly she cursed- that was the sound of a wanton child, but damn it felt so right in that moment.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathed against her neck, “your skin and your mouth and your fucking _cunt_.”

Her body. Did he miss her? _Of course not, and why should he? Why would I want him to? Don’t I miss him for what juts between his thighs, for the skill of his tongue?_ She had no other reason to miss him, she lied horribly to herself.

She missed him for what he taught her, for how he broke her shell and snaked into her skin and dug his claws into her veins. She missed him for the pleasure he caused, and the odd safety he made her feel. She missed him because she was a wolf, and a hound was more wolf than a lion could ever dream to be.

Sansa pushed him away from her, to his protest, and reached behind her to loosen her own gown. He watched her strip of it, before she helped him peel his clothing away, reveal the hard muscle and tangles of dark hair and scars beneath. She trailed kissed down his chest, his stomach, to the base of his cock, before she swallowed him down, made him tip his head back and groan, buck his hips towards her. She wondered if he’d had whores since he last had her. Did he fuck them? Did they swallow his cock like she did? Did they moan and squirm for him?

She wished them all dry cunts and lovers with cocks the size of pebbles. She only wanted him to find her pleasure in her.

He was hard against her tongue, in her hand as she stroked with the movements of her mouth. He free hand squeezed his hip, then dared to slip between her own thighs. She teased herself, squirmed, and when he caught a glimpse of her, he lost his wits.

“Up, Sansa,” he growled, and she stood. He turned her, forced her to lean against the ledge of the window. She gripped it, felt him pressing against her from behind as he guided his cock to her entrance. When he pressed into her she cried out. It felt so different from their first time together. There was no sting, only an ache as she stretched to fit him. He brushed her nerves differently from behind, and Sansa found herself panting quickly, pushing her hips back, her bottom up, to give him better access.

This time his nails ran down her spine, though not as hers had their night in the godswoods. The marks remained on him, many healing to almost nothing, but a few on his chest and back promised to be fine white scars someday. More for his collection. More to swell his pride.

“Fuck,” Sansa growled, nearly making the Hound lose his grip on her hips. Was his little bird beginning to sound like him? _The gods be damned._ “Harder,” she pleaded, and he obeyed, worrying he could bruise her pretty white flesh, but bloody seven hells she felt too good to deny. Why had he wasted so much time before taking her again? The Imp be damned, the wolf was his, he’d have her by rights.

Truth be told, he had been fairly drunk each time he’d been alone with her. In his drunken mind, he was able to claim that Sansa was just another woman, something to taste and tease and fuck, and be done with. His game with her had been fun, but he’d taught her enough of her sexuality that he could move on.

In truth, he knew that all to be lies. She was not just a woman, she was Sansa Stark, his little bird, and he was far from done with her. Her innocence was gone, but he’d be damned before he’d deny in his stone cold sobriety that he didn’t want her always. He just couldn’t always have her- and that stung, felt like a blade opening his flesh for a new wound, drove him deeper into his wine.

He hated liars, so it was a good thing he didn’t ever look himself in the eye, or he’d never be able to believe his lies while drunk. Sansa seemed too naive still to be able to find the truth.

He shook his head to chase away his thoughts and rolled his hips into Sansa, making her squirm. He wanted to enjoy her here, now, he could think later. She moaned and let one of her hands slip between her thighs, teasing herself. It was enough to make the Hound want to spill himself inside her that very moment. But not until she was ready.

He leaned forward over her, kissed at her shoulders. He wanted to turn her over, to face her, to kiss her, but he couldn’t bare it. It was too intimate, beyond what he was allowed. She saw a married woman, Sansa Lannister now, and the only claim he dare take was to her body and his pleasure, not to her intimacy.

She cried out suddenly, shuddering, and he felt her, the way her muscles rhythmically constricting around him. He gave into his pleasure as well, groaning and jerking his hips against her. Sansa slumped against the window, and he leaned his forehead against her shoulder, let the salt of his bitterness sink into her skin.

She thought it was from sweat, from the light sheen that covered her as well. She didn’t see his tears, silent but there, mourning the death of his little bird, and the birth of this woman he wanted, but knew he would grow to hate, dangled in front of him like a bone he could only gnaw on in dark, quiet moments.

He left as quickly as he came, leaving Sansa to dress herself, to ache for more. She sat on the ledge of her window and leaned against it, wondering if any of her maids had walked by and heard her. Would they go running to her husband? Would he even listen to them? She knew she could not risk it, had to finally give Tyrion something to claim.

She had to give herself to him, if she wanted to continue to give slivers of her soul to her Hound.

Sansa drank wine that night, strong red like her Hound liked. It tasted like how he used to taste, how he did when he denied her. She still did not know why it had not stained his mouth that day. Sansa drank down her first cup quickly, had drunk down nearly another by the time Tyrion entered the room. He had been heavy in his cups, she could tell, but he greeted her kindly none the less.

He was a Lannister, yes, but he was kind. She could have done worse. She could let worse things inside her.

“I’ll be asleep soon,” he said, waving his hand as he worked open some of his clothing to change, trying to reassure her he had no interest in forcing her. Sansa stood, set her wine glass down, and with shaking hands began to unlace her dress. He didn’t notice until it was loose, until it began to show pale, smooth skin he had not seen so clearly. “My lady?” he asked, ever courteous, and with a final breath for strength, Sansa pulled it down, revealing the skin beneath. She stared at him with her Tully blues, and the wine clouding his mind did not give him wit to question what lay behind them.

Tyrion walked over to her, and she knelt, kissing his brow, before she turned and crawled into their bed. In the dark, she could close her eyes, and pretend to be far away. She could remember the first kiss the Hound had given her, his first touches in the godswoods, the carnal way he he pleased her in the sept.

She lay there and thought of death, of the Stranger, with a burnt face and a laugh of scratching metal.

The bedding and wine had left Tyrion exhausted, and he slept late. If he had noticed Sansa’s lack of a maidenhead, he had said nothing. She had whimpered and winced, and acted as if there was pain, which seemed to have fooled him in the moment. Still, she rose from bed before him, took his dagger, and carefully sliced into her thigh, taking the blood onto her fingers and smearing just a bit onto the sheets. She cleaned herself, set the dagger back, and slipped into a night gown then, and waited.

When the maids came in, their eyes had turned big as saucers. Sansa watched smugly, arms folded. She knew words would be around the Keep before midday, and she was bloody well happy to have this talk of her being a cold woman put to rest.

Tyrion tread lightly with her when he woke, but she acted no different than normal. She greeted him, smiled, broke her fast with him. She did not begrudge him, he had not schemed to wed and bed her. Truth be told, it had not been _that_ bad. Imp he may be, some parts of him were the size of a regular man, and Sansa could not deny he had been with enough whores to know how to use his manhood. Still, he was not the Hound. He could not hold her the way that man did, kiss her as he had, bringing to sheer screaming ecstasy with his tongue and fingers and cock as the Hound could.

Deciding on some fresh air, Sansa settled in outside. It was not particularly warm, but her dress was heavy enough for her not to feel cold. She thought she might spend her whole day sitting under the sun, when she saw the glimmer of white armor, and the sound of a boy pretender, like the screech of a dying bird.

“Lady Sansa!” Joffrey walked over, arms out stretched as if he meant to hug her. “My lady _aunt_ , you look radiant today.”

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat, had to remind herself of her courtesies. She wanted to tell him to bloody well bugger off, but those were words spoken in the Hound’s raspy voice, and not her own.

“Good morning, your Grace,” she said, bowing her head, as she was sitting. He settled in next to her, his Kingsguard fanning out around them. Sansa saw the Hound among them, but could not catch his eye.

“I would expect you to be radiant though,” Joffrey was continuing, “as you’ve finally bedded a Lion I here! Soon you’ll be bringing little golden Lannisters into this world- I know how pleased that will make you. Too bad they’ll be as ugly as that Imp.” He was smirking at her, eyes like daggers. Sansa held her shoulders firm, tried not to shrink from his gaze. At least she hadn’t had to spread her legs for him.

“I was doing my duty as a wife,” she said, then feeling a heavy gaze on her, black a night, as death. She knew the Hound was watching her. She wanted to turn to him, to tell him she had done as he bid- know she could have the freedom to spend precious moments with him. It could work, this could work.

“The maids say you moan like a whore,” Joffrey said, sneering now, “Tell me, is my uncle’s cock that pleasing to you, Sansa?”

She couldn’t fight down the blush on her cheeks then. It was a lie. She had not moaned for Tyrion- well, she had, but not with a fervor. Not like she cried out for the Hound.

“Maybe someday I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

Joffrey let his eyes linger on the scooped neck of her gown, then stood, and walked away, his guard following him. The Hound was gone before Sansa could even try to reach his eyes, and suddenly she did not want to be outside where she could be seen.

Come nightfall, Sansa settled herself down in the godswoods. She hoped that the Hound would have come there, to hope that she would find the need for his solace that night, but she was alone. At least that meant she did not have to face ser Dontos, either. She had grown so sick of his empty promises of her release that she had given up hope on her Florian. She had not seen him in quite some time.

Sansa bowed her head and closed her eyes, offering a silent prayer to the old gods. She asked for the safety of her mother and Robb, for them to slay the lions and free her someday. She prayed Joffrey would choke on his wine and die a fool, that the queen would fall from her litter someday and that half the city’s men had their way with her wretched cunt.

She prayed for the deaths of many, and for the kingdom to drown in golden blood.

She prayed for her Hound to appear and hold her, so she could explain that what she had done, she did for him.

As if they had been listening, Sansa heard the heavy pattern of his footfalls. She did not need to look up to know, could feel his warmth as he settled on the stone bench next to her. She turned slowly, pulled her cloak tighter around her against the cool air.

“You fucked the Imp.”

It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t shouted, it was just a statement. One of truth. Sansa nodded, wished he’d look directly at her.

“I had to,” she began, “or eventually, someone might question me. I did it exactly like you said- he was drunk, I simply faked some pain. He never knew. If I give him a taste here and there, we can be free to resume our nights.” She reached out, placed her hand on his arm. “We can be together again.”

“No.” It was heavy, thick, a word that made Sansa’s chest contract and shatter. “No little bird, we can’t.”

“Why not?” Sansa grabbed his arm in both of hers, her eyes turning to wild blue fire. “You _told_ me to bed him. You told me I needed to. I did it for _you_ , Sandor.”

His name cut like daggers into his flesh. He covered one of her hands with his, wanted to kiss her, taste her lips, feel her fingertips. Wants to press her into the cold stone and take her like he did the first time, to make the godswoods sacred for _them_. But that was no longer his place. His little bird was gone, she had grown into the wolf she needed to. He’d taught her what she needed- how to get what she needed of a man, to use that treasure between her thighs for herself. To wear a coat of armor under his silken skin, to have claws of steel.

His time with her was over.

“I’m sorry, little bird.” Sansa stared, felt her skin turn to ice. He was _sorry_? The Hound was never sorry. That was the last word she expected to hear. “You have no use of me now.”

“Of course I do!” She stood up, throwing her cloak off. Sansa reached behind her, tearing at the lacing of her gown, pulling it until her breasts were free, until it fell nearly off her arms, showing the expanse of her creamy pale stomach. “I _need_ you. You can’t look at me and tell me you don’t need me too.”

She grabbed his hands, pulled them up to her chest. She was warm and soft, and he leaned forward, kissing her below her ribs, nestling into her soft skin. She was quivering, crying he knew, but he didn’t dare look up. Her tears would make him come undone. Her skin threatened to do the same, as he kissed it.

“You can’t leave me.”

He did look up then, saw the wet streaks on her cheeks. He straightened up, buried his hands in her hair and pulled her to him, kissing her. Sansa fell into it, pressed against his chest, clung to him. His resolve was wavering, threatening to snap within his chest, his gut. He had to let her go, or Sansa was doomed.

She was still shaking, he could feel it even in her lips.

“You’re going to die with me,” he rasped, a warning he feared lost on deaf ears. “If you don’t go.”

“Then I’ll die,” she said, pulling back, her head held high. “I’m not a child- not anymore. I have nothing left for me to live for here. What remains of my family is far away, and I may never see them again. I’m not waiting for some handsome knight or lord to take me away- I’m married to a _Lannister_ , and I want their bloody _dog_.” Her hands cupped his cheeks. “You make me feel safe. You make me feel alive. My cunt isn’t the only thing that you make ache.” She kissed him again. “You’ve changed me. Would I have dared even say that months ago?”

He chuckled- gods he couldn’t help it, and wrapped an arm around her naked waist. She smiled, so beautiful, and let her fingers trace patterns into his leather jerkin.

“I don’t know what this is. If it’s senseless lust, or love, or some bastard of the two. But I don’t care. It’s more than I can expect to find in anyone else.” She laid her head against him, closed her eyes. “Would you still have me go?”

_Yes_ he thought, but, “No,” his lips betrayed. He settled back down onto the bench and pulled her into his lap, pulling on her gown and freeing it from her hips, letting it slide off her long legs. Gods be good, she hadn’t worn smallclothes, and she was naked and glowing in the moonlight, like a ghost. A ghost of the little bird she had been, a ghost she would become and forever be.

He kissed her and knew he kissed a dead woman. Knew she kissed a corpse as well. Had he let her go, she could have saved herself, lived many years, kept Tyrion in the spell of her sweet cunt and pretty smile, settled into a life eventually with less danger, less fear. Had he only let her go.

Someday, they’d be discovered. If the gods were good, they’d die as their pleasure peaked, as he kissed her honeyed lips on last time. But their heads would be served to the Lannisters for their treasons none the less. You did not bed the wife of the King’s uncle and face no threats.

He settled her onto the stone bench and got to his knees, spreading her thighs, kissing the soft skin. He found the wound she had given herself, traced the inflamed skin with a rough finger.

“There had to be blood,” she said simply, and he kissed it, sucked on the wound until it reopened and he tasted iron. Sansa drew in her breath, and when he looked at her again, his lips were red like a woman’s. She leaned down, kissed them, sealed her fate to his by her blood.

They would die someday, but not that night.

**Author's Note:**

> I was torn between some sad/romantic ending, and just absolute smut. Ended up with this semi-hybrid.
> 
> That wraps up "The Awakening"! Thanks to everyone for reading!


End file.
